


Nothing Like Christmas

by shrink



Category: The Smiths
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-29
Updated: 2013-01-29
Packaged: 2017-11-27 10:59:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/661216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shrink/pseuds/shrink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the first Christmas Eve following the Smiths break-up Morrissey pays Johnny Marr a not so jolly visit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing Like Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written as part of the [Smiths Slash ](http://smiths-slash.livejournal.com/) Christmas Fic Exchange 2012. It is a gift to vulpineways.

“I want it back.” The command is sharp despite the screen door between us.

The warm California breeze blows in around him as I squint at his dark silhouette.

“What?”

He repeats the statement, but that wasn’t what I meant.

" _What_  do you want?” I’m glad I sound annoyed. Because I am. Because people should be allowed to be alone. Because I would have thought he’d know that better than anyone.

“My notebook,” he says as though it should be obvious by now.

There is something altogether strange about him that I’d been trying to work out since I opened the door. And in this moment it occurs to me that I hadn’t seen him in the sunlight in months, at least, not like this. It had been florescent studio lights, the spotlight of the stage, even the dimly lit, false luxury of hotel lobbies.

To be exact, the last time I’d seen him had been in across the table of a tiny chip shop. The waitress never came back to refill our coffee, but we kept sitting there expectantly, though the bill had been paid. Later he’d say that he didn’t know I was serious about leaving, but that day I’d made my intentions clear. His blue eyes hadn’t left the top of the table between us again.

His sunglasses pinch the bridge of his nose, and he doesn’t seem vulnerable anymore.

“I don’t have it,” I say, looking over his shoulder to the empty cement that led to the row of rentals I was situated in. Someone should have called or something. There should be an alert sent out whenever he leaves the country. Although to be fair, these past months since the split I’ve managed to hide away quite successfully from the world.

“Someone said they laid it on top of your red Rickenbacker at the last recording session. You clearly have closed the lid without a second glance because when I went back to the studio it was gone. So there it presumably sat, privy to your whims.”

“I’ve played it since then,” I say defensively. That’s probably true.

“It’s critical that I find it. Those are my unsung lyrics in that notebook. It’s virtually priceless,” he says as he draws back the screen and slides past me. The slam of the screen door back to its place startles me. In the seven years that I’d known him, Morrissey had never shown up at my house without calling first. Now he was striding up the steps, without a backwards glance at me.

I immediately decide not to follow him. He obviously wants a confrontation. The notebook is tucked away in my closet anyway, he won’t find it.

My Gibson is leaning against the couch where I’d left it when I answered the door. I try and play that new chord progression I’d worked out, but I can’t think of it at the moment.

He reappears in the stairwell empty-handed. “You could, actually, help.”

“Is that really why you’re here?” I look back down at my fingers.

If he could make even the smallest gesture, I might relent. It’s admittedly easy to think that when I know he won’t.

“I don’t understand the question,” he shrugs, frowning at a dirty plate I’d left on the end table.

Does he really expect me to believe that he endured a flight to America for a notebook? How many Valium did he choke down to make it to the airport alone? Or am I supposed to be reading some impossible subtext?

“It’s gone, maybe you should be too.”

He raises his eyebrows thoughtfully, as if he’s heard something that I didn’t say.

**Part II.**

Later that night I’m standing hesitantly in the foam of the Pacific Ocean. The cuffs of my jeans move around my ankles. The salty air bleeds together with the taste of gin on my tongue when I lick my lips. I’m not drunk, but no one ever goes to the ocean alone at night when they’re sober. They shouldn’t anyway. I know it’s dramatic, but there are some emotions that can only be lessened by dramatic gestures. I don’t know what I’m trying to exorcise tonight. The notebook feels light. I don’t want to have anything that belongs to him, but I don’t want to return it either.

“Give it back.”

I’m not surprised that he’s followed me.

It won’t stop me. I fling it hard into a cresting wave. It doesn’t go far. But in the night’s inky water it’s almost impossible to spot. Morrissey rushes waist high into the water. I stand defiantly still. I hate myself for hoping that he finds it. His arms dunk in and out of the receding waves. It’s more effort than he put into getting me back.

I light a cigarette. The notebook reappears, bobbing into the darker water. Morrissey sees it, but has to duck to avoid another wave. When he resurfaces we both lose sight of the thing.

I don’t know how long he fumbles for it, but I’m flicking the end of my cigarette into the sand when he finally drags himself out of the water. His oxford shit is clinging awkwardly to his torso and he moves stiffly, the water bubbling out of his tightly laced boots. He sits gingerly in the sand; his breaths stagger at first, but begin to level out after a few minutes. It takes me a bit to decide but it’s unmistakable, he’s crying. It’s almost inaudible over the waves, but his shoulders shake in that uncontrollable way that happens even if you try and calm down. And he’s trying, I can tell by the rasping breaths he’s taking to calm down.

He doesn’t ask me why I did it. He thinks that I’m vindictive and any cruel deed needs no further explanation. I wish I could throw myself into the ocean in the same way. But I can’t. So I do the next best thing, I sit down next to him.

“It has to end somewhere,” I say.

“Why?” He finally replies. Already his hair is drying in the wind.

“Because something can’t unravel forever,”

“Is that what happened?” He seems genuinely surprised, looking at me now.

I kiss him then because I feel like I should. He’s cold and shaky as I grip his wet shoulder in my palm. It all feels so familiar, but empty in the way of trying to reclaim something that no longer belongs to you. Like visiting your old school or driving past a house you used to live in. I wonder what he’s thinking with his eyes shut tight like that.

“That wasn’t your notebook,” I say offhandedly. It’s a lie, but it’s a nice lie. He opens his eyes and smiles at me.

“I didn’t think it was,” he says before kissing me. And I know that we’re both liars as I taste my own cigarette on his lips.

**Part III.**

We sit there awhile longer saying nothing.

“I really need to be getting back,” he says finally.

We walk towards my condo, where his rental car is inconspicuously parked.

“Do you want to change?” I offer, noting his still damp trousers.

“If you don’t mind,” he hauls a travel bag from the backseat of the car. I begin to formulate questions about the nature of his trip, but say nothing. It feels strange being so polite, but there no other way to act around Morrissey at a time like this.

He follows me back to the condo, and I show him to the bathroom so he can get changed.

When he steps back out, his wet trousers are replaced by tight jeans and loafers. “I’d almost forgotten,” he says, his bag strapped over his shoulder. “It’s Christmas Eve.” I follow his stare to the plastic tree Angie had insisted we set up. The rainbow lights cast strange shadows in the room.

“I brought you something,” he continues, “it wasn’t meant to be a present but anything given on Christmas is—so,” he trails off, and removes an album from under his arm.

It doesn’t make sense until I see the cover. “Freshly pressed; not in stores yet,” he explains.

“It’s autographed,” I trace the messy letters of his name written under the Strangeways road sign.

He shrugs. “Your thanks are extraneous.”

“What about your notebook?” I ask, not wanting him to go, because it is Christmas, and Angie isn’t coming home for another day.

“The search continues,” he replies, casting one last glance over the living room.

“I think I have hot chocolate I could make,” I finish lamely. Of course I don’t; I barely have enough leftovers to make it through tomorrow, but I don’t really expect him to accept anyway.

Morrissey turns and leans partially on the door frame.

“I’m afraid I’m expected somewhere. But I did promise Andy that I’d tell you that he misses you.”

I purposefully meet his gaze. “Then I’m sure he’ll find a way to let me know that.”

Morrissey smiles sadly and opens the door. I wonder what right he has to be sad as he says, “Happy Christmas Johnny.” The screen door smacks behind him. I can hear his car drive away down the seaside street through the open window. I walk to the fridge and twist open a beer. _Strangeways_ is sitting next to me on the couch when I sit back down.

A black and white Christmas movie is playing on the TV. I wish Angie wouldn’t have put up the tree. It makes the room seem empty by comparison. I swirl the beer idly. The pages of the notebook could have washed ashore. They could even be salvageable. I imagine myself collecting them along the wet sand, in the same way someone would seashells. And when I hold them to my ear, I hear music. But it’s just the closing credits of the movie and my eyes slip closed again.

 

 

 ** _I swallow your heart and you make me_** **_spit it up again. I swallow your heart and it crawls_** **_right out of my mouth._** **_You swallow my heart and flee, but I want it back now, baby. I want it back_** ** _._** _Lying on the sofa with my eyes closed, I didn't want to see it this way, everything eating everything in the end._

 

- **Dirty Valentine** , Richard Siken

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this story please consider [buying me more caffeine for my bloodstream.](https://ko-fi.com/A402111U)


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